She hoisted the water bucket to carry it inside, but the dangerous thought persisted. Surely he could teach her something that wasn’t a risk. If he would.
Instead of scowling as Miranda expected, the cook greeted her with a smile. “Wyatt, that merchant, he said you was giving him directions. Begged my pardon most prettily for delaying you, he did. You run along, Miranda. Help April with the sweeping up.”
Baffled, Miranda hurried toward the common room. What had Wyatt done to Flora, to charm her so?
Charm her. He must’ve done exactly that.
A chill ran down Miranda’s spine. Wyatt was more dangerous than she’d realized.
An apparition invaded Richard’s sleep, jolting him awake. In the chair by the window sat a middle-aged man dressed in tunic, hose, and boots, garb fashionable two centuries earlier. Faint traces of gray streaked his black hair. At his side hung an empty scabbard. The chair and window frame showed through the man’s body.
The ghost’s faint glow wavered at the edges like a candle flame and blurred its features, but Richard didn’t need a clear view to recognize this specter. He swallowed an oath. The last thing this situation needed was interference from the man who’d started the Mainwaring curse.
“Go haunt someone else,” Richard said. He turned over, presenting his back to the unwanted visitor, though he knew that wouldn’t discourage the family ghost.
“You’re thinking of the quest. You must be, if I could break through your mind’s defenses.” The apparition’s voice had the hollow, grating quality he remembered. “You have erected formidable barriers.” The ghost now sounded wistful.
“Did you need something, Edmund?”
“‘Grandsire Edmund’ would suit me, even if ’tis a bit short for the number of generations between us.”
God’s teeth. Sleep had flown, so Richard sat up. “You surely did not interrupt my slumber to discuss names.”
Edmund sighed, the sound like a creaking windlass. “You think me an old fool, so you’ve barred your mind to me for a decade.”
“I meant to bar it yet.” Patiently, because he knew Edmund felt guilty, Richard added, “Going over and over your reasons for cursing all your direct heirs achieves nothing. The situation is unresolvable, and I’ll live with it as I choose.”
“So you remain determined not to wed.” The ghostly eyes darkened with reproach. “Hawkstowe needs a better heir than your cousin George.”
“Every family produces an unreliable heir at some point.” Shooting Edmund a disgusted look, Richard ran a hand through his disordered hair. “I won’t permit your curse to poison another marriage or condemn future generations.”
His mother’s resentment over the doom his bloodline imposed on Richard had turned his parents’ marriage bitter and distant.
His own desires aside, though, George’s rising debts and deteriorating character made finding some solution imperative.
“The girl’s vision offers hope, do you not see?”
Hellfire. He shouldn’t be surprised Edmund knew about her, but that would complicate matters.
“I told you not to spy on me.” Though he’d suspected at the time that the warning was futile. “How do you even know about this girl, anyway?”
“I was wandering the London house when young Winfield came to see your grandmother. After he told her about the dragon, I came here posthaste. Heard the last of what the maid told you.” Edmund shrugged. “I kept my distance so as not to bother you.”
That must explain the sensation Richard had felt by the well earlier. Edmund had been careless.
“We both sensed you in the yard, but even if we hadn’t, eavesdropping will avail you nothing. My conversation with Miranda Willoughby won’t change either of our fates.”
The ghost frowned, then shook his head. “You seemed unsettled by a cold patch in the yard earlier, but that had naught to do with me. I was farther away from you.”
Edmund’s face held no trace of deceit. But if not Edmund, what had caused the cold spot in the yard? “Did you see anyone or anything else watching us?”
Edmund shook his head. “I was alone. Whatever caused it, that’s over and done, Richard. Her vision is far more important. It could be the key to everything.”
“Or not,” Richard said, his voice dry. “What she’s said about it thus far is so vague as to mean little without refining it. Which she apparently lacks the training to do. She’s abysmally ignorant about the need to be certain one is dealing with Gifted who follow the light and not the darkness.”
“She created the dragon and has a certain proficiency with glamours, as her disguise proves,” Edmund responded. “If she spoke truly tonight, she could be a powerful seer, whether or not she knows it.”
That was true, and it might mean she had the power to help in Richard’s quest regardless of whatever value her dragon visions held. But he knew too well the bitterness of false hope.
Richard said, “Her skill level and inherent power will take time to determine.”
“I’ll watch over you.” Edmund beamed at him.
“No. Begone, Edmund.”
“As soon as you hear me out.”
Richard shook his head. “I know your sorry tale too well. What I’ve never understood is why you felt the need to curse us all.”
Edmund had the grace to look ashamed. “I went too far. I know that, but ‘tis done now.” He sighed. “At least the boys’ poor bodies were finally discovered this summer, when that staircase at the Tower was demolished. I suppose King Charles plans an elaborate tomb.”
“So he says. Now, go away. I need to sleep.”
“Richard, I pray you, understand I meant no ill. I kept silent only at King Richard’s behest. I never dreamed that green, craven Henry Tudor would defeat him at Bosworth, nor blame him for the boys’ deaths. I dared not speak while the Tudors reigned, but I had to see justice done. I owed them that, the king and the lads. Can you not see?”
Edmund’s eyes took on a pleading look. “We need you, Richard, you and the children you could have.” The ghost’s sigh rippled through the air like a sudden draft. Edmund glided toward the bed. “Do you think I never regret all this? I left a confession, you know. Had it not burned ere your grandfather could—”
“Let’s not plow that ground yet again.” Richard kept his voice even with an effort. He’d barred his mind to Edmund precisely to avoid endless repeated justifications. “I won’t do to any woman what my father did to my mother.” Or what his grandfather had done to his grandmother. “Now, begone.”
Edmund stood, scowling. “Someday, grandson, you will hear me out in full.” He vanished.
No oath Richard knew could vent his frustration. He kicked back the covers and sprang out of bed.
Pacing in the chilly predawn air cooled his temper. He opened the window to take a deep breath.
In truth, he had some sympathy for Edmund. Anyone, even a wizard, could be cozened into trusting a dishonest master. Unfortunately, Edmund had compounded his mistake by damning his entire line until they cleared King Richard III’s name.
Richard frowned. The girl’s vision likely did have some connection to the family curse, and as Cabot pointed out, the timing of the dragon’s appearance implied it was also related to the ominous wind. Richard would pursue deciphering her vision, but carefully.
Her face flashed into his mind, those intelligent eyes focused and damnably wary. She was an attractive woman, the more so because she seemed unaware that she was. Nor had she tried to bargain, he realized, his frown deepening. Many of her station would have tried to sell their information, either for coin or for advancement. Yet she hadn’t.
Which made her even more appealing, blast it. But she was not for him, and he knew better than to let a woman distract him. Even if her power proved true, and not dark-spawned, she could still be allied with Wyndon.
He straightened his shoulders. “Hear me, Edmund, if you yet remain. I will not warp the meaning of her vision to suit your purpos
es. What comes of it will come, naught else.”
He waited a moment to let his words sink in before softly adding, “I swear on the sword of Hawkstowe, by the blood of Morgan, and into the dawn. So shall it be.”
Chapter 4
The service would end soon. Then this Master Wyatt would depart to do whatever dream knights did. At least he would leave Miranda in peace while he dealt with whatever her visions meant.
Even better, her life would return to normal. Last night’s unsettling dream—which at least had not involved dragons or boars or danger, only a strange book—would be the last, and he and this troubling awareness of him would be a memory.
She sat at his side in a worn, oak pew in St. Mary’s Church. All through the service, she’d been conscious of him beside her, of his strong profile, of his large, clean hands on the prayer book. He was a well-favored man, and hers weren’t the only eyes drawn to him.
The sanctuary looked faintly dilapidated, but its stained glass windows muted the sunlight and cast jeweled patterns onto Miranda’s best gown, a pink one she rarely wore. Candlelight gave a gentle glow to black-and-white vestments while voices raised in song echoed from the thick stone walls. The Anglican service had a grandeur her father’s Dissenter services couldn’t match, though admitting it felt disloyal to Father’s memory.
At last, the rector delivered the benediction. Ushers opened the doors. The congregation, some townsfolk and a number of soldiers from the castle garrison, filed out. Miranda sighed in relief and let Wyatt escort her outside.
A crisp, salty breeze from the sea stirred the musty scent of fallen leaves. It rippled the grass around the church’s tiny yard and dropped bright autumn leaves from the trees. Wispy white clouds scudded across a sky of bright blue.
The fine day would’ve lifted her spirits if she hadn’t been so torn between what she knew was best, sending Wyatt on his way, and the temptation to ask him more about magic.
To ask him anything to draw his attention.
When had she become so foolish?
Behind the little gray church was an ancient tower of matching stone. The Roman lighthouse, now used as a powder magazine, stood like a sentinel watching the clouds pass. Kings had come and gone while the lighthouse stood here. It would likely outlast whatever her dream betokened.
Farther inland, the great keep of Dover Castle loomed. The civil war of the 1640s had damaged other great castles, but not Dover. It still guarded the English Channel and the bustling port at the foot of the white cliffs.
Wyatt followed her glance. “Dover wears its years well.”
“Aye, it does.” The thick walls radiated strength and certainty.
Parishioners gathered in the church yard. Miranda strolled with Master Wyatt away from the chatting throng, toward the low earthwork at the cliff’s edge. From there, the ground dropped toward the Channel in a long, steep slope.
“I compliment you, mistress, on your knowledge of the service,” Wyatt said. “Reluctant or no, you seemed at home.”
“My grandmother made certain I knew the litany she considered proper. Along with many other things.”
“What sort of things?”
Miranda shrugged. “Old tales. Traditions.”
Legends of knights in armor, of sacrifice in the cause of right. Of valor and magic and honor. All those had brought sparkle to a life made lonely by the need to hide her magic, but he would probably laugh if she told him.
Glancing at him, she said, “I trust I’ve satisfied you as to the source of my power.”
The breeze whipped her cloak and skirts about her legs and brushed her face with tendrils of hair that had escaped its braid. She held her cloak tighter at the waist.
“We can trust each other on that point,” he agreed.
There was something about this place. Something different that tingled at the nape of her neck and bubbled deep within her. “This isn’t just another church, is it?”
“No.” He nodded, as though in salute. “The Saxons built the first church here on a place infused with great power. That power, rather than the liturgy, is why I brought you here today.”
His level, assessing gaze locked on her face. Suddenly she’d had enough of his suspicions.
Before she could say so, he continued, “This was Morgan Le Fay’s stronghold in southern England. The Gifted used it for centuries, until the growing power of Christianity drove us into hiding. This headland is a stronghold of the light, and those who serve the dark have never been able to endure it.”
Miranda frowned. The sorceress in the tales of King Arthur had not been a force for good, but there was no point debating that with him. “So being here proves we’re both of the light? If you’re telling me the truth.”
“Quite. Very good. Your doubts show you’re learning to think defensively. But I am telling you the truth.” He paused, eyeing her thoughtfully. “All this frightens you, doesn’t it?”
Surprised by his kind tone, she answered him honestly. “I can deal with fear, but you treat me as though I’ve done something to you. Mayhap I have, but not apurpose. There’s no need for you to be so suspicious.”
“Mistress, the Gifted, as a group, are no more honorable than anyone else. If I’ve treated you with suspicion, there are others who would treat you as a lamb to the slaughter.”
Slowly, as though just realizing it himself, he said, “But I’ve treated you less well than I might have. I beg your pardon. The symbols of your dream touch on matters private to my family. Will you hear me out?”
He seemed sincere, so she turned to face him.
Wyatt glanced toward the distant coast of France. “I traveled under a false name to avoid notice, but you’ve earned the truth. I’m a Knight of the Garter and a knight in fact. Sir Richard Mainwaring, Earl of Hawkstowe, at your service.” He made her a bow fit for Queen Catherine.
He couldn’t be serious. This was like falling into one of Grandmother’s stories. If these claims were true.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why didn’t you say so all along?”
“Wisdom demands caution in dealing with Gifted strangers.”
A lesson she should heed. “How do I know you’ve told me the truth now?” His clothing, while fine, lacked the elaborate lace and jewels worn by the few noblemen she’d seen.
“You must trust your instincts.” He met her probing gaze without flinching.
“As Flora trusted hers?”
“Flora? Ah, the harpy who rules the inn’s kitchen.” He shrugged. “She hasn’t your instincts. I merely tweaked her mood a bit. I did her no harm and made no lasting change.”
Flora had seemed as snappish as usual since then, so perhaps that was true. But what if he was doing the same thing now? She shouldn’t just accept his word without question. “How can you be a knight, though? That is—you do mean you’re a knight like the ones in the old tales?”
When he nodded confirmation, she said, “You say you’re telling me the truth, but there’re no knights anymore, save for honorary ones like those of the Garter.”
He smiled, humor suddenly dancing in his eyes. “Nor are there dragons.”
That smile made her heart beat faster, but she couldn’t let him dodge the question. Raising her chin, she held his gaze.
“If you must know,” he said, “I grew up on a great deal of nonsense about chivalry. I asked the king to knight me because I was young and mush-brained enough to honor that imaginary tradition. Because he was young but had seen his youth fly away, he humored me.”
What he said made sense, and he seemed earnest. For now, at least, she would take him at his word. She looked away, toward the castle’s great keep. Discussing these strange events with someone else, even someone she didn’t entirely trust, felt strangely daring and yet liberating, too.
“Is there anything you haven’t told me?” he asked.
“A couple of things,” she said. “The first is that a sampler suddenly appeared in the inn. When I asked about it, another maid t
old me the landlord’s wife made it about seven years ago. But he never wed, and I know the sampler wasn’t there until four or five days ago.”
He frowned. “You didn’t simply stop noticing it, out of habit? Or mistake the landlord’s history?”
“No. Do you know how such a thing could be?”
He shook his head slowly, as though considering. “Have you seen anything else odd?”
“There’s a wrongness in the wind. Not so much as there was, but still ... disturbing.”
“Aye. When did you first notice it?”
“A few days before the sampler appeared. I tried to ignore the strangeness of it, the dread in it, but if you noticed it, too, then it’s not just my uneasiness over all this.”
“It’s not.” Grim-faced, he asked, “Have you had any other visions?”
“Some.” Miranda frowned. “Nothing was clear, mostly just impressions, one a vision of a man and a place I didn’t recognize—that flashed by before I truly knew what they were.” She told him about the hanging and what she’d seen during and after it.
“They were all very strong,” she said. “Most of them came only once, but the one with the dragon and boar kept coming back, blotting out the world. I couldn’t see or hear what was around me, so I made mistakes. Missed things I should have attended to.”
“I’m sorry.” Although he spoke quietly, his gaze remained keen. “Go on.”
“The dragon visions were the most complete, save the one I had last night, the other thing I wanted to mention. I dreamed about the pages of a book changing while I watched.”
“Do you read, or did you simply see the shapes of letters change?”
Her cheeks warmed, but it was a fair question. Most servants could neither read nor write. “My father was a clergyman,” she said, “and he saw to it that my brother and I could read.”
“Could you tell what the book was?”
When she shook her head, he asked, “Where are your father and brother now? Have you discussed these visions with them?”
The Herald of Day Page 4